Sullenly, unwilling to say a word to break the grim seriousness in Olum's eyes, the three of us sat down there in the dirt by the tent. Olum took a knee, leaning over toward us and lowering his voice, "I'm going to need to borrow your Druid here," he glanced at me, but was clearly talking to the boys. "There's been an incursion, and we're going to be left cleaning up the mess what spills past the Rose."

My guys looked at one another and looked at the dirt. Eyes affixed on the ground with a deadly seriousness, unwilling to glance at me. "That bad?" I had no idea what the three of them were talking about, but I found it infuriating none the less. I was pointedly being included in the discussion, in fact, you could say it was about me even - but, at the same time, I felt like I was purposely being excluded from it. It sucked. Olum nodded, seemingly satisfied that they were understanding (though the hell if I was). "The counsel of Threes is currently meeting with a Prince-of-Twenty-Legions. Mim, here, has been invited by name - and was expected some hours ago." The two seemed both shocked and redressed. Not twenty minutes ago they were tearing out one another's spleens, seemingly, without a care in the world. Now, however, they looked like someone had just run over their cat. Just... shattered. It was a little bit horrifying. "Anyway," Olum started to stand. "We had best be off. Mim, follow me." He brushed himself and turned away, walking down on towards the largest tents by the World Tree. I hesitated though, glancing at the guys. I wondered if there is something I needed to ask them, in fact, it seemed pretty clear that there was. Still, before I could whisper a question, Olum's stern voice urged me along. "Now, Mim. Unless you want to keep the Prince waiting. Longer, that is, than you already have." And so I scrambled after him, putting the boys out of my mind and struggling to keep up. For having those stumpy little legs, I had to hand it to the guy, he set a brutal pace. The tent was large, easily two stories high had it been an actual building. It was embroidered in tones of green and brown - as you would expect of a Guild founded by a Druid, I guessed. As we passed the flap that pretended to be a door, I caught sight of a long table with a good dozen men and woman lined around. Each of them, obviously, carried proudly their nameplate announcing them to be 'Level Threes', and they stood anxiously conversing with some... thing, at the head of the table. Olum and I paused, just inside the doorway. Flapway. Whatever. And we waited to be noticed by the company assembled. Not that it was really necessary, since it wasn't ten seconds after we walked in that all ambient conversation suddenly ceased. But I could almost feel the need to obey protocol dripping off of the little Dwarven shoulders of the man beside me as we waited. They stared at us. That was the worst part. For a good thirty seconds. all twelve of the men and women of the council seemingly undressed me with their eyes. Weighing me against some standard I wasn't even aware of and, I felt certain, finding me wanting. It was uncomfortable, and despite the gravely, inhuman sound, I found myself grateful as the voice of the thing at the head of the table barked for me to approach. "Mim, come to me. Let me look upon you," came his voice, tones like rocks scraping against gravel. I didn't hesitate but flee the sight of the Council. and I walked at a brisk pace to follow suite. His proportions were massive, with horsehair covered legs and hooves, his actual hair, on his head and his chest, being more a mine than something that might belong to a man. It wasn't the intermingled features of equine and human that struck me as most odd about this Prince, however. It was the fact that he did not bear a nameplate. And, moreover, the fact that, if I focused hard enough, I'd swear I could see right through him. "Yes, yes," the gravelly voice rumbled, as his eyes alighted upon my face. This time, his gaze seemed to settle less on my body - on the cut of my shoulder, the size of my waist - but rather seemed to look right through me, seeing something deep inside. It would have been unnerving but... instead, instead I felt nothing but a strange and unfamiliar warmth. The fact that I found myself comforted by this man, this thing, I think, was the most disconcerting and, well, uncomfortable thing about it. "Mmm. I see that they are correct. You are, in fact, a healer of some skill. But that is not all you are, is it little Mim?" He seemed to wink at me as he spoke. And, rather than being antagonized by his probing, I found myself struggling not to blush. "Yes, yes," he went on. "It seems as though there is much more to you than I have heard. Much more indeed. Tell me, little one, which Bob was it who found you? Who exactly do I have to thank for bringing you to me?" I hesitated, my mouth opening and closing as I struggled to remember how to speak. Finally, after a an extended battle with myself, I finally scored a victory. "Wh... what?" I squeaked out. The Demon Prince laughed, and he smiled at me. "But that may wait until later I suppose. First, I shall share with you the news that we have already shared with the counsel." His expression stiffened, becoming deeply serious as he continued - all trace of probing curiosity gone, "There has been an incursion. Five aberrations have managed to escape the Isle of Pan. Of those five, one is being engaged by the Knights of Rose Garden as we speak. They expect to be able to intercept a second, and I have full confidence in their ability to do so. The Commander of the King's Guard, Sir Lockwood, has been dispatched with the Royal Knights to intercept the third and fourth." He nodded to the council behind me, gravely, before glancing back at me. "That means that dispatching the fifth aberration will be the responsibility of your guild." He paused, taking a deep breath, and the council members jumped in without missing a beat. An old man with golden armor spoke first, "The Aberration in question is confirmed to be a level 3 elite. All level threes in the guild will take part in the raid, as well as any level twos who decide to volunteer. You, however, are a special case and are not being given a choice." A councilwoman wearing a long, rich purple robe and leaning against a thick, ornate staff picked up where he left off, "Should you refuse this mission, you shall be stripped of the rights and protections of this guild. We have decided to give you a grace period - two hours to collect your things and leave before we will be spreading the word of your disgrace. At that time, any guild member would be duty bound to kill you on sight." Most of what they had just said made little sense to me, but that last part rang clear as a bell. Help kill this thing, or be hunted down like an animal. They hesitated as she finished, as if the gravity of their own words were sinking in. And I had enough time to jump in. "Wait, so... you all are going on a raid against a single, elite monster. Of the same level as most of you. You want me there as the only person you've got who can fill the healer role. Got it. Whatever." I looked at their faces, one by one, and took in their rich-looking armor and battle-scarred faces. I breathed another breath, "What I don't get, really, is why you all seem to assume I would actually say no? Seems like a pretty sweet gig to me." None of them spoke after that. I couldn't decide if they were shocked at my audacity, or just at my failure to grasp something that seemed painfully obvious to everyone but me. Finally, when no one seemed willing to speak, I heard a deep, gravelly voice clear it's throat beside me, "Mim. You are new to this world, it is obvious. And while the punishment for refusal would be dire, the potential danger would be more dire still, should you agree to joining in this fight." The council seemed to be waiting for this. Being given permission to speak of the things that everyone was thinking, but no one had dared to say. The man in golden armor spoke again, his voice softening, more gentle, "Look, this isn't your average void-touched monster we are talking about. This is an aberration. If you die... well, if it eats you... there is a chance that you won't come back from that." He cleared his throat, taking a breath, "Not in a few months, not after a year of torment in the spaces in-between. Not at all, never. For that is often the power of a creature such as this." Seeing the color draining out of my face, the mage lady seemed wanting to press the issue even further, "And what's more, even if you do survive, there will be loot. The lords of this plane will reach out, upon the creature's death, and convert it's chaotic essence into fuel. You, our entire raid, in turn, will receive a set of soulbound items should we survive the encounter." She paused then, for effect. As if waiting for me to have some sort of a revelation. Ya, whatever. I frowned. "So, what you are saying is that, if I go into battle with you, there is a possibility that we all could die, for good. So what? It's obviously the same risk every one of you seems willing to take." I looked at each of them in turn, "And, in the end, those of us who make it will get some sweet, sweet loot. Still seems like a good deal to me." The Council members gave me conflicted half smiles. I thought it was a pretty rousing speech, myself. But it was obvious that there was still something I was missing. The deep gravel of Prince Demon eventually broke the awkward silence. "Little Mim, you have to understand - once you possess a soulbound set you are going to be targeted by the White Hand. And the Paladins of Archania, they don't take prisoners, after all." My jaw dropped. I stared at him incredulously, turning away from the council. "Wait. I'm supposed to be scared of a bunch of nancy paladin's? What the hell are they going to do anyway, preach at me?" Olum's voice echoed from beside me, at the far end of the table. "Mim, don't be daft. Think about where it is that you are." He paused, I suppose for effect, "You are in hell. There are no actual paladins in this land. And there never will be." Prince Demon picked up easily when he had left off, not that I needed his deep voice's dissonant, throbbing notes, not with the sudden sense of foreboding creeping up my spine, "That's right, little Mim. What you seem to be failing to understand is that, of the other Level Two's that volunteer, all of them will be ready to hit level three with this kill. That is why they shall volunteer. Those that survive will all be Threes with soulbound items. And, thereby, they won't be easy pickings. All of them, but you that is." He frowned at me, condescendingly, " I am aware of your... special skills, little creature. But I shall tell you, there is no way for you to reach 45 in your class skill and 40 in a Class Skill affiliated sub-skill before you kill the beast, which is the requirement to be awarded Level Three." Glancing at the council, and back at me, "You, instead, will be a level two with five, fanatical, Level Four Anti-Paladins hunting you. There is a good chance that you will not survive the week. Regardless of what you now choose." I blinked. I blinked again. And something, deep down, stirred inside of me. There was a fire, inside my guts and hips, that slowly crawled up along my spine. Climbing, until it mixed with the magical hate of my Class. Belial's Hate. And I stood up, to my full 5 feet, and looked that... 8 foot... demon in his eye. Taking out my purse (My other purse), I slammed the leather on the table. As expected, a single, dried testicle rolled out, spinning its own little lopsided dance until it fell from the table. And, for effect, I crushed it smoothly with my boot as I took my next breath, "You think to intimidate me? Scare me with some foreign order of.... Paladin wannabes? Well think again. I will stand with you. We will kill this aberration. And, when it is done, I will walk away with whatever the hell it drops." I turned, slowly, to the council. "And if anyone has anything to say about that? Well, they are welcome to be added to my roster of damned souls to whom I grant eternal life." I spat on the floor next to the crushed testes, "And eternal death besides." A slow, mocking clap punctuated my words after a long second of silence. A deep, masculine voice laughed. Delighted. "Oh, little Mim. You thrill me beyond words. In acknowledgement for the entertainment, I shall grant to you a part of my name. You, and you alone, may call me 'Oro'. But, I must ask, delightful creature that you are, which Bob was it that brought you here? Who brought a healer down into hell, with the spine of an orc and the tongue of a banshee?" He bent over closer, menacingly, "I simply. Must. Know." I shrugged. "He called himself Bob 37. And he was kind of a dick." No one seemed inclined to talk after that, so I glanced around. Curtsying to the demon, I took a step backward and turned on my heal. I was just about done with all of their petty politics. Someone shouted at me, as I left, "We leave in three days. You be at the World Tree when the sun rises, ready to go." I didn't stop to acknowledge him. And, as the tent closed behind me, I heard the deathly quiet turn into a murderous roar. Apparently, they had plenty to talk about. Now that I was no longer there to hear them. Back at the camp, everyone had already turned in for the night. With nothing left to do, I crawled back into Fr3's tent and curled up in my blanket. I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep, but it was soothing still. To sit there in the dark and listen to the crickets, feeling the cool drafts of air across my neck. Listening to the man sleeping, so very soundly, beside me. I would have questions, in the morning. And I would need to practice my new skills. I had a feeling that I was about to go into the fight of my life and, one way or the other, my quiet reprieve in this place would soon be over. We barely spoke the next morning. We simply devoured what we could of the flatbread, dipped in leftover gruel from the night before. It didn't take us five minutes to eat and grab up our equipment, before we set out again to our little grove. I brushed my hair on the way, keeping my broom in my pack. I trusted my companions now if there was danger. I had seen firsthand what they could do. And that was when they weren't actually trying to kill their opponent. It was a solemn affair and none of us spoke a word even, not until we came across the clearing from the day before. We, unanimously I think, didn't wanted to be heard. We wanted to be far enough away not to risk being stumbled upon, but not so far away that we couldn't get back in a hurry if there was trouble. The clearing was recognizable. The same way that my own experiments with the power leveling of toughness and Witchcraft had gone back in the village, here in the clearing there were spare parts everywhere around. Here, someone's arm. There, a large piece of intestine that had fallen to the ground, after a particularly brutal slashing had knocked it free. There were fingers and hands and feet laying in the grass, leaning nonchalantly against trees... Hell, there was even a part of someone's hand, stuck up in a tree just out of reach. The ground itself had been christened with our blood, and our sweat, and our flesh. Strangely, it seemed to welcome us back. The ground seemed to announce to us, 'this place is a part of you, as you are now a part of it.' It was kind of beautiful really. In a brutal, macabre kind of way. But then, hey, I wasn't given that title for nothing. I guess. The Macabre. It was when we reached the safety of the clearing, only then did I dare speak. "So," I started, hesitant, still, to break the tranquility, "Tell me about the White Hand. Why do they hunt down people with soulbound equipment?" Fr3 shrugged at me, as if to say that he didn't know or, really, care. It was what it was, and it was our job to roll with the punches. Bushwar, however, had a slightly different take on the matter. "Well," he started, "the thing is, they weren't always fallen. They were paladins once, or they thought that they were. They rode with some Crusade, or with Charlemagne, or some shit like that - nobody really knows for sure." He shook his head. "The thing is, when they found themselves here, they instantly vowed to defeat the demons who had tricked them." He glanced, uncertainty, at Fr3 before continuing, "See, they say that, for centuries, they fought anything that stood in front of them. Laying waste to entire towns, cities even, of humans... monsters... it didn't make much difference to them. They slaughtered aberrations, even, on instinct. Didn't think twice, believing them to be abominations beyond God himself." I shrugged. "Makes sense, I guess. But it doesn't really answer the question?" Bushwar frowned, annoyed at me for interrupting his monologue, I suppose. "Well, the thing is, after hundreds of years of massacre and slaughter, they realized that they weren't getting anywhere. They had become extremely powerful, having been gifted with set weapons, leveling them up, and finishing the trials to reach that final mortal level. Level four. But hell was still just as... hellish as it had always been. And the demons, oh the demons, they actually seemed to be pleased at their progress. You see, by fighting off the aberrations, it turned out, they were unknowingly carrying out the Devil's work. "One day, after a particularly stupid Demon had gloated to them exactly that, the five came together. They formed an organization, united by their philosophy and their newfound knowledge, dedicated to fighting the demons and preventing any other lost soul from unwittingly aiding the Devil or his minions. "To this day, anyone who has a soulbound set of equipment, who has not dedicated themselves to the cause, they will be hunted to the ends of the earth. And the White Hand is very, very good at hunting. Almost as good at it, in fact, as they are at murder." I blinked at him a few times, shrugging. I guessed that I couldn't point to anything there that was completely unbelievable. Especially in this place. Even still, a bunch of paladin wannabees intent on letting abominations devour the world, rather than play nice with a single demon, it seemed completely insane. Then again, I had always been something of an atheist. So, who was I to say, really, what went on in the mind of a zealot? No, even hearing their reasoning just seemed to prove to me that, not only was I doing the right thing in standing up to these assholes, but I felt that wasn't even enough. They were spoiling the party, hellish party that it was, and, for that, they needed to be taken out of the equation for good. Not by me, I guessed. I was still a Level 2 nobody. But you know, in general. It would be kind of nice if no one had to worry about them, ever again. In retrospect, I now know that I was rationalizing. I hated the fact that I was afraid. And by turning my hatred toward them - toward their twisted beliefs and their even more twisted desire to hunt other players. Lost. Whatever. Because so long as I swore in my heart of hearts that I would destroy them, I didn't have to wonder how long it would be before they found me. Before I met them and I, in turn, discovered what it meant to die in this place. I was picking random herbs as I listened. Most of them turned to ash in my hand, but every once in a while one would survive - only for me to uncover some completely useless ability. Like curing the warts of a frog, for example. What is that, I don't even? Skill Increased! Scavenging +1 When the boys started sparring again, I stepped in, leaving my Foci behind in my bag. I had anxious nerves, too much fear and worry - and. despite the pain, I really just needed to give and take a few hits. The claws that I had designed for my forearms, they turned out to be fairly decent at shielding me when used them to block. Though the drawback there I discovered was that, if the claws were chipped or broken, my forearms would be missing pieces of flesh and bleeding when my arms merged back into their regular shape. Still, after a few hours had passed, I had managed to work out my frustrations somewhat. Even better, I had gained 7 points in Wicked, one in Witchcraft, one in Toughness, and two in Anatomy (ya, don't ask about those two. It wasn't pretty - and it was mostly a result of me sitting on the ground while wondering, light headed, which of the discarded parts belonged to whom). Still, as cathartic as it was, I decided that the skills I was raising weren't the ones that I really needed to focus on. Whether it meant I could make level three in three days or not, it seemed obvious to me that my best shot at survival would be focusing on my Class Skill, and my highest Skill Witchcraft affiliated. Which meant that, like yesterday, what I needed to focus on exclusively right now were 'Witchcraft' and 'Spell Foci', respectively. The boys actually seemed to breath a sigh of relief when, finally, I stepped back and picked up the broom. Channeling a broken, stuttering beam of regeneration at them between tossing out the Heal Spells stored in the crude wood, we quickly got back to business. My progress that day, it was nothing compared to the day before. It appeared that, as I was getting up toward the cap, my growth was slowing down once again. Even still, I managed to get another five points of Witchcraft and 6 more of Foci before the sun sunk low over the horizon. Before we turned back for camp. It had been a long day, it would be a quiet night. As it would be again the day after, and again the day after that. By sundown on the third day, after bathing that clearing in so much blood you couldn't even see the grass or trees, I had gained another 4 and then 2 points of Witchcraft, with another 5 and 3 points in my Foci. It... wasn't enough. And I knew that as I laid my head down and went to sleep on that last night. I was fight. I was going to win. And then, inevitably, I was going to die.